Born to be Food
Sitting in a dark room
I flutter mothwing eyelids.
It comes to me
that I was born to be
the hive master of every earthy beast,
and a flock of wild angels.
My moth eyed fluttering pauses
to stare me down,
I was born to be looked at,
born to be the face of death,
a performance, a circus, a pantomime,
deaths own masquerade, a poet.
Sitting in a dark room
I grope for a bottle of wine on a side table.
My angels are thirsty,
the beasts are lapping at the open cuts,
those self-inflicted wounds
upon angelic wrists.
I was born to be this blank page and a pen,
a purchaser of refurbished laptops -
born to be a set of blindly probing keys
for the unlocking of symbols,
fictions real enough to feed
even the thin white blood
of mothwings.
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